


things are coming into focus

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Character Study, Drunken Confessions, Getting Back Together, In Media Res, M/M, Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 12:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7934467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I could push him away this time, Jarrod thinks, as he lets an arm wind around Ian’s waist.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	things are coming into focus

**Author's Note:**

> This is an interlude while I poke at something much longer and braineat-ier.
> 
> Thanks to [**blastellanos**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/blastellanos/profile) for betaing this for me.
> 
> Title from "Into the Open," by Heartless Bastards.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Jarrod blinks his eyes a couple times, but that does nothing to chase away the apparition standing in front of his hotel room door at—he hazards a glance down at the watch circling his wrist—two in the dang morning.

Ian lists in the doorway, and Jarrod catches a pungent whiff of alcohol heavy on his breath.

“Kins? What’s up?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

Ian sways again and Jarrod reaches out to steady him with a hand to his side before remembering himself. He jerks his hand away and presses it against his thigh, digging his fingernails in the soft cotton of his pajama pants. Ian looks haunted, with shadows under his eyes that look like bruises, and Jarrod wishes he could wipe them away with the pad of his thumb.

“Aren’t you gonna let me in?” Ian asks, leaning in, bracing his arm against the doorway.

“You’re drunk,” Jarrod says.

“No shit, Sherlock.” Ian doesn't wait for an answer, just bulls his way past Jarrod and cuts a path through his luggage for the bed.

Jarrod closes the door gently and turns to survey the wreckage. Ian’s lying facedown on his hotel bed, feet dangling off the end. His gray suit is rumpled, his shoelaces are untied, and he’s not wearing any socks.

Sighing, Jarrod goes over to the minibar, gets out a plastic bottle of water, and sets it down on the nightstand by Ian’s head.

He turns to leave—maybe McCann has some insights to offer on the Angels’ lineup—but Ian shoots a hand out and catches Jarrod by the wrist. His fingers are cool and damp and press the links on Jarrod’s watch into the skin of his wrist.

“No, c’mon,” Ian mumbles, tugging. “Stay.”

“Why?” Jarrod asks. 

It’s a stupid question. He knows why. He’s _always_ known why. As much as Ian once liked to pride himself on being difficult, he’s always been an open book to Jarrod.

“I have a headache,” Ian says.

“Here.” Jarrod twists his wrist out of Ian’s grip and pushes the water into his open palm. Ian lets the bottle fall to the carpeted floor with a heavy, sloshy thunk. 

Jarrod crouches down with a groan, picks up the water, and puts it back on the nightstand. “I’ve gotta grab Mac for a sec, run over our scouting reports with him,” he lies.

Ian mumbles out of the side of his mouth, “You’re lying.”

Well, Jarrod never said he wasn't easy to read either. 

Jarrod stammers. “I—I’m not? Lying?” 

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Salty.” Ian waves him off dismissively and shoves his face into a pillow.

Jarrod sits next to Ian on the bed, perching carefully on the edge of the mattress, and draws a knee to his chest. “Okay. Did you wanna talk or something?”

“I wanted to… I don’t know.” Ian sits up slowly, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. “I hate playing in Anaheim. I hate West Coast road trips.”

“Yeah,” Jarrod says noncommittally, lifting a shoulder at him in a half-hearted shrug.

“You’re not helping.” Ian scowls at him.

Jarrod allows himself a smile. “I’m not trying to help.”

“Fuck you.” Ian punches him in the arm savagely.

“We already did that, remember,” Jarrod jokes, but he doesn’t think it lands quite right. Ian’s eyebrows jerk up into his hairline and he purses his lips like he just sucked down a particularly sour lemon.

“I didn’t come here to get shit on,” Ian announces haughtily, dragging himself up onto his knees. He pulls a hand through his disheveled hair and down over his face. Heaves a weary sigh and lets his hand drop into his lap. 

“I’m sorry,” Jarrod says, and he means it. “I won’t. Shit on you, I mean.”

Ian twists his face into an unattractive scowl, like a petulant child in the throes of a temper tantrum. “Jesus, Salty.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Jarrod says automatically, nudging Ian gently in the knee with his own. Ian grumbles and slaps at his leg. “I mean it. Wouldn’t want you burning in hellfire and damnation for all eternity.”

“If I’m burning in hellfire and damnation for eternity, you know damn well you're gonna be right there beside me,” Ian says, grasping Jarrod by the shoulder and pushing him back against the mattress.

I could fight this, I could fight him, Jarrod thinks, as he sinks down into the pillows and comforter. I could push him away this time, Jarrod thinks, as he lets an arm wind around Ian’s waist.

Ian straddles his thighs and looks down at him, palms resting flat on Jarrod’s chest. “Why don’t you ever tell me to stop,” Ian asks. “You’re always going on about hellfire and brimstone but you never say no. You’ve never told me you don’t want this.”

Jarrod’s hand snakes over Ian’s knee, crawls up over his hip of its own volition. Usually he feels suffused with the Lord. Tonight he feels empty, like static snow on a television. Or the drone of a dial tone just after someone’s hung up on him, the click of the receiver still ringing in his ears. 

“I don’t know,” Jarrod answers truthfully. “But we’re all sinners, every last one of us. The Lord will—”

“Shut up about the Lord,” Ian snaps. 

Jarrod stops talking.

Ian dips down and kisses him, hands still pressing into Jarrod’s chest. There’s a lot of teeth and not enough lips or tongue. The kiss is slick and coppery, and Jarrod realizes Ian’s bitten his lip bloody. When Ian pulls back, Jarrod reaches up and brushes his fingertip over a raw spot on his bottom lip where Ian had caught him with his teeth.

“Ian—” Jarrod begins, but Ian rolls out of his lap and sits with his back to him, shoulders hunched, head clasped in his hands.

“Shut up,” Ian mumbles through his hands.

“You don’t know what I was gonna—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ian cuts him off sharply, slapping his hands down on his thighs. He sits up and straightens his rust-red tie. His gray suit is even more rumpled now, and his dark hair is sitting askew atop his head like a crooked hat.

Jarrod reaches out without thinking and palms the back of Ian’s head, smoothing the unruly, dark brown curls at his nape. 

“It matters. It never stopped mattering,” Jarrod says. Ian shivers out from under his hand and Jarrod stops moving his fingers through Ian’s hair, lets his arm drop.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Ian says, but he doesn’t make to leave. Instead he shifts closer, until his shoulder bumps up against Jarrod’s. “I should probably leave.”

“Probably,” Jarrod agrees, reaching out and letting a hand skim down slowly, experimentally between Ian’s shoulder blades. 

If Ian wanted to, he could shake him off. He could leave. Jarrod would let him go.

Ian mutters something low under his breath, something Jarrod can’t make out. It sounds sharp and bitten off, like a curse. Maybe Ian’s taking the Lord’s name in vain again. They can add it to the laundry list of sins they’ve committed, both together and on their lonesome.

“I’m drunk.” Ian sighs miserably, leaning back against Jarrod’s hand a little bit.

“You can crash here if you want,” Jarrod says carefully, sliding his hand under Ian’s jacket to scratch at his back lightly. 

Ian wriggles his shoulders and finally shrugs out of his jacket. He flops next to Jarrod in bed, trapping his arm underneath him. Jarrod doesn’t mind. 

“You’re a good egg,” Ian says.

Jarrod starts to laugh. “What? What does that even—”

Ian moves lightning quick, kisses him again, but this time it’s gentle. Gentle for Ian, which is maybe not quite the same thing as _gentle_ gentle. Jarrod feels Ian’s hand on his chest, over his heart, thumb tapping in double-time. Ian braces himself against Jarrod and his elbows dig into his stomach where he’s gotten a little soft as he’s aged. Ian doesn’t even make a snide comment about it like Jarrod had thought he might. 

Jarrod hums against Ian’s lips and paws at the side of his face and Ian turns his head, breaking the kiss. Jarrod feels Ian’s mouth press against the center of his palm, for the briefest of moments. Ian pulls back and they stare at each other, Jarrod still with his hand cupped loosely against the side of Ian’s face. 

Ian’s dark eyes are soft, almost kind, and it’s a weird look on him. Jarrod’s so used to Ian’s sharp angles and even sharper words, hurled like stones meant to cause hurt. Now he’s just— _soft_ , maybe slightly out of focus, tough to define.

“What’s this mean?” Jarrod asks, gesturing between them with an easy flick of his wrist. “Like, for us. You and me.”

“I just came here ’cause I was drunk and bored and I hate West Coast roadtrips,” Ian says, laughing a little. He shrugs. “I guess I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Jarrod echoes, and he feels Ian grow tense, fingers tightening on his forearm. Jarrod rubs a hand up between his shoulder blades again. “Well, that’s fine. That’s alright. Neither do I.”

Ian lets out a deep breath and leans in to kiss Jarrod again. “It’ll be better this time,” he says.

This time, Jarrod thinks. There’s a _this time_. There’s a _you and me_. His heart is full and light in his chest, and it feels a lot like the Lord, even though he knows the Lord would never approve.

“It’s okay,” he says, mostly to himself.

Ian smiles at him, a genuine smile with teeth this time. All the shadows are gone. Jarrod grasps him by the tie and pulls him down for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
